


The Norwood Will

by maypoison



Series: The Network [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Detectives, Eventual Romance, Homeless Network, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Setting, Multi, Pregnancy, Reader Insert, Slow Build, The Network - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 01:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15378141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypoison/pseuds/maypoison
Summary: Based on the original story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 'The Norwood Builder'.A young London solicitor appears at 221B Baker Street claiming that he is innocent of a terrible crime, but only Sherlock Holmes himself can prove his innocence and potentially save his life.





	The Norwood Will

"Turn to the left.”

You turn your head as instructed by your good friend John Watson. As you do, a muscles spasm in your neck and shoulders, and you quickly draw a hand up to clutch at the painful area.

“It hurts” You all but moan, and John stands back, moving away from where you were sat on the sofa.

“Yes.” The man replies, and you note his bitter tone. “Getting hit with a taser will do that to you.” John moves to his first aid kit sat on the table, but not before he sends a cold look towards the detective in the room.

Sherlock sits silently in his chair by the fire. His eyes are closed, and his hands are steeped beneath his chin. You knew the position well enough, and you begin to worry that your conversation with John was going to distract him.

John, apparently finding what he was looking for in his kit, moves back over towards you. He pulls a chair from the table with him so he can take a place near to you.

“It wasn’t his fault.” You murmur, looking into the eyes of your good friend and Doctor. John doesn’t respond, just angrily scowls at the blue ice pack that he presses against your now pounding neck “John, c'mon, it was an accident.” You try again to gain a response, but the man stays resolutely silent.

You sigh in exasperation, but the movement causes your muscles to move in an odd way. You can’t suppress the yelp of pain, and John applies more pressure to your injured body with the ice pack. 

“Your muscles are sprained, in your neck and shoulder. Not too badly, but they'll be causing you some spasms and pain for a few days.” The man recites in his professional tone. He moves your hand to hold the pack in his stead, before reaching over and bringing the medical kit to rest on his knees “You’ll have a headache, and some dizzy spells.”

“No more than usual” A monotone voice interrupts.

You smile at Sherlock’s attempt at humour, but don’t raise your head in the man’s direction, in fear that you’ll be reprimanded by the Doctor. You often joked that you permanently had a headache, what with living with Sherlock and all of his craziness. The joke doesn’t seem to go down well with John however.

Seeing the expression on John’s face darken to one of anger, you hold back a gulp, instead watching as he turns quickly to face Sherlock, who was still sat across the room from you both.

“Seriously?” The man growls, and Sherlock looks taken aback.

“What?”

“That’s all you’re going to do. Make a joke about it. This isn't funny, Sherlock.” John continues, and you don’t think you had ever heard him this mad before. It is different from his usual demeanour, and you make a mental note to never make the man mad yourself.

“John -” You try to raise your head, but the movement causes another huge lance of pain to shoot up your shoulder and neck.

John sighs, before turning back in his chair.  You notice that he pulls something out of his medical kit, and begins to unpack it. You watch the man’s actions closely, even though at that moment you wanted nothing more to try and communicate with Sherlock Holmes.

“She’s not a detective Sherlock, or an officer, or a soldier. She's a member of the public, and you nearly got her killed.” John continues to growl, but he sends you a kind look of pity as he moves your arm, and wraps what you now realise is a sling around your shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous. She's -”

“Ridiculous?!” John snaps, this time rising from his chair and moving over to where Sherlock now stands by the fire.

“Yes. I had everything completely under control.” Sherlock responds quietly, and you realise with some surprise that the two men were attempting to leave you out of the conversation.

“Bollocks.” John snaps, and you can't help but roll your eyes.

“You know, I am still right here. I can here you.”

Your voice seems to finally grab the two men’s attention, and they both turn to look at you.

John sighs, before sending a quick look to his friend and detective. Sherlock’s eyes actually widen as he deciphers the look from John, one you couldn’t even see yourself.

“Listen,” John begins quietly, turning back towards where you sat on the long and worn sofa. “I don’t think …”. The man trails off, before moving slowly to sit back in the chair he had just vacated.

“What?” You ask, worried at the sudden change of tone in the man.

“John.” Sherlock warns from across the room, but you don’t move your gaze from the man sat opposite you.

“I don’t think that this is a good idea. You're not trained to deal with this thought of thing.”

"Is anyone?" You joke with a small smile, but John's gaze doesn't soften. You shift in your spot on the sofa, wincing slightly as the movement jostles your protesting muscles. “What do you mean?” You ask, trying to keep your voice light and not to give away the fact that you had just caused yourself more pain.

“You’ve had a good run with Sherlock. You've helped him -”

“You want me to leave.” You interrupt, suddenly realising what your friend was trying to say. John sighs and bows his head, and your gaze snaps over to where Sherlock stands, looking distractedly into the fire. “Both of you?”

Sherlock turns back towards you and John, and crosses his arms over his chest. “No.” He replies simply, and the tension still filling the room means you can’t even smile in response to his answer.

“You’re going to get her killed. Or worse. This has to stop now, before something even worse happens.”

Before you have time to question John on what he believes could be worse than being killed, Sherlock sighs, something very uncharacteristic of him, and begins pacing in front of the fireplace.

“She’s the head of the homeless network, John. She's a crucial component in that Network. Without her -” Sherlock says, his force sounding low and controlled, like he was trying desperately not to say something he shouldn’t. “I …” The detective pauses his manic pacing for a moment, before turning to look at his friend “I need her.”

Your eyes bulge in shock at Sherlock’s revelation, but John just smiles; an expression that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, before getting up slowly and moving over to his friend.

“I swear, Sherlock” John begins in a low voice, obviously attempting and failing to ensure that you can’t hear him. “If this is just some psychology bullshit; trying to mess with my mind to make me think you care …”

“I assure you, it’s not.” Sherlock answers clearly, and loudly.

John appears flustered for a moment, before passing a look between you and Sherlock. The detective raises an eyebrow in your direction, and you smile in response.

“Ok.” John sighs, seemingly pacified. “Ok fine, but next time she goes with you -”

“I’ll ensure not to let the psychopathic murderer have access to a weapon.” Sherlock says, completely deadpan.

“You know John, technically I tasered myself.” You reply, just as the man had begun to walk over to his medical kit and begin to pack away everything that he had been using.

“Shut up.” The Doctor grumbles, making you laugh loudly in response. You wince at the movement, causing John to roll his eyes and Sherlock to smile.

Suddenly, Mrs Hudson voice rises from downstairs, sounding very angry, and you all stop to listen closely. Loud footsteps signal that someone was running up the staircase to your flat, and unexpectedly a young man, covered in sweat and with a bright red face, all but skids into the room.  

“Can I help you?” Sherlock asks, and the flustered man turns in his direction, completely ignoring both yourself and John, who shrugs at you before making his way downstairs. You smile in farewell, before turning back to the man in the room, who was apparently your new client.

“Mr Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?” The young man asks, looking at Sherlock who had moved to sit in his seat.

“Yes …” Sherlock drawls, looking closely at the man and no doubt making some deductions to try and determine who this person was, and what they could want.  

“Oh thank goodness you’re here Mr Holmes. I need your help. It's urgent, very urgent.”

“Murder?” Sherlock asks, so casually that he could have said the word ‘tea?’ instead. He waves a hand in the direction of John’s chair opposite him, and the man moves to take a seat.

“Well …” The young man begins, before suddenly stopping, as if he had only just heard what the detective had said. “How on earth -”

“It’s what I do, Mr?”

“I’m John Hector McFarlane.” The man announces; putting down his briefcase and peeling off his sweat covered suit jacket.

“You say that like we should know who you are?” You answer, smiling slightly in amusement at the mans flustered appearance.

“Oh, haven’t you seen today’s news? Or read the paper?”

“No” Sherlock says quickly, before moving over to the dining room table and spinning his laptop towards himself, no doubt to have a quick search of his new client.

“We’ve just got back from another case. Haven't had time to look at anything yet.” You explain, and Mr McFarlane nods, wiping away some sweat that had begun to collect on his forehead as he does so. “Are you alright? You seem a little dishevelled.” You comment, noticing that John appeared to be thoroughly out of breath, even though he was sitting comfortably in John Watson’s chair.

“Oh yes, forgive me. I ran here.”

“You ran?” You question, taking in the man’s formal attire and wondering why on earth someone dressed so smartly would feel the need to run to the point of exhaustion.

“Yes.” John McFarlane responds to you with a small smile. Sherlock makes a noise from his spot reading the computer screen, and both you and the new client turn to look at him. “I promise you Mr Holmes, everything that you will read is not true.”

“I should hope that is true, Mr McFarlane." Sherlock responds coldly, snapping his laptop lid shut and moving to stand near you where you sit on the sofa; moving away from the man currently sat in John’s vacant chair. “Otherwise, there is a murderer in my living room.”

* * *

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” You ask, watching the strange look passing between the man and his guest who was sat by the fire.

“It would seem that Mr McFarlane is involved in the murder of one …” Sherlock turns then, slowly heading back to the computer on the table, and with a swift motion the laptop screen lights up, showing an article from an online newspaper. “Jonas Oldacre.” Sherlock reads, and he doesn’t seem to recognise the name.

On hearing the name, John McFarlane actually gulps, and shifts awkwardly in his chair. “I beg you Mr Holmes, I need your help. This entire situation -”

“Mrs Hudson’s alright.” John says as he swiftly enters the room. The man sounds slightly out of breath, and you wonder how longer the good Doctor had been stood downstairs with Mrs Hudson.

“Good.” Sherlock replies simply, before making his way back over to his chair by the fire. He looks at John McFarlane closely, his eyes squinting as he looks at the man suspiciously.

“What’s going on?” John asks, appearing thoroughly confused. Obviously Mrs Hudson hadn’t been able to provide him with any answers as to who the man was either.

“We have a new client.” Sherlock replies simply, and you turn to gape at the detective.

“What?! Sherlock, you just said -”

“That he is  _involved_ in the murder. I think Mr McFarlane has to right to give us his account of the incident. In fact, I would encourage it.”

John turns to give you a look, and you shrug in response.

“When you two are quite finished, sit down John. I have a feeling that this will take a while.”

“I’ve got to go Sherlock.” John replies simply with an apologetic expression. Sherlock sighs, seemingly exasperated, but doesn’t argue that his friend should stay. John walks over to you, adjusts your brace supporting your injured arm and shoulder, before whispering to you so neither John McFarlane nor Sherlock could hear him. “Watch him.”

“Sherlock or the suspected murderer?” You ask, smiling slightly at John’s amused expression.

“Both.”

John leaves then, probably to see his now heavily pregnant wife. You had never met Mary, and wondered when you would have the pleasure. Suddenly, your mind takes a dangerous turn, and you mull over the idea that maybe this had been purposeful. Maybe John didn’t want you to meet. After all, you had plenty of opportunities; it wasn’t as if you were suddenly going to disappear from 221b. You didn’t have anywhere else to go, at least not yet.

“I’ve been followed here from my office Mr Holmes.” Hearing John’s trembling voice pulls back your attention to the present, and you shift to face the new client and Sherlock who was sat opposite him. “I feared that they wouldn’t let me give my side of the story …”

“That is what interviews are for …” Sherlock mumbles, before moving to look out of the window of the flat and onto the street beyond. The detective couldn’t stay still, something that you had equally gotten used to, and annoyed you at the same time.

“You saw the news reports Mr Holmes, this isn’t a case anymore. This is a witch hunt” John McFarlane says to the detective, before wiping his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. He was pale and shaking, but you don’t let his demeanour distract you. After all, as Sherlock had pointed out before, he could be a murderer.

“Who was following you?” Sherlock asks, before with perfect timing, blue lights shine into the dim room, and the detective smiles, mostly to himself.

“Speak of the devil” You mutter, and Sherlock turns to look at you. He frowns, and you wonder what he was thinking about …

Suddenly, a loud thumping sounds as the police bang on the door downstairs, followed by the footsteps of Mrs Hudson moving quickly to answer the door.

“Ah, Lestrade.” Sherlock announces as the man sweeps into the room with a stoic expression on his face. “We were wondering when you might Grace us with your presence...”

“What the hell happened to you?!” Lestrade asks loudly, glaring at the bandage on your shoulder and for a moment being completely distracted from the suspect sat not two feet from him.

“Well, I starting working with Sherlock …” You begin sarcastically, but Lestrade doesn’t seem to be amused, instead turning to now glare at Sherlock.

“An unfortunate incident involving a Taser.” Sherlock explains simply, and you shift awkwardly on the sofa, not really liking all the attention you were suddenly receiving. “How can we help you Lestrade?”

“I think you know the answer to that …” Lestrade replies, looking over to the young pale man sat in John’s chair.

“Oh yes, Lestrade allow me to introduce…”

“A suspected murderer.” Lestrade interjects, and another police officer you recognise quietly steps into the room behind the man. Sally. “Hang on, what the hell is he doing on your living room?!”

You try and fail to hold in a nervous laugh, and Sally turns to you with a taciturn expression and shakes her head. That stops you immediately, and you honestly become a little bit upset by her cold action.

“Well Lestrade, Mr McFarlane was about to give us his statement. Now that you are here, we can proceed.”

“Now?” John asks incredulously, and you swear you see the man gulp.

“I don’t see why not.” Lestrade sighs, before pulling out a notepad.

You do the same, reaching to gather the notebook John Watson had given you. You turn to Sherlock, and the man reaches into his pocket for a pen, and wordlessly throws it to you. You manage to catch it despite being one handed, and both you and Sherlock smile childishly at your victory. Sally meanwhile, had been watching you both with a curious expression.

Sherlock sits in his chair opposite his new client, holding his hands under his chin, and Lestrade and Sally stand in the middle of the room, waiting for Mr McFarlane to begin.  

“I was having a typical day at my office in London. I’m a small time solicitor; mainly handling things like wills from my clients. Well yesterday morning, a man I recognised came in to see me …”

“Jonas Oldacre.” Lestrade says, before writing that down as John nodded in agreement.

“He used to be good friends with my mother before she died, and so I hadn’t seen him since I was a child. Probably around 15 years ago. Well, he comes into my office with a small scrap of paper, and tells me he would like to me to rewrite and sort his will. Apparently, Jonas wrote the entire thing on the train on the way to see me in London from his home in the country.”

“The train?” Lestrade asks, and Sherlock looks slightly annoyed that the man’s statement had been interrupted.

“That’s what he said yes. I did think it was strange, but then again, the idea of him visiting me was strange in itself.”

“And the Will itself?”

“It was a scrap of paper like I said which wasn’t particularly odd. Many of my clients have ideas and changes that they wish to be made in their wills, and so write everything down whenever they can on whatever they can. No, that’s not was strange. What was strange was that … Mr Jonas Oldacre had left everything in his possession to … me.”

“And what exactly did this entail?” Lestrade asks once again, before crossing his arms over his chest. John gulps, before he continues.

“His home and business in the country. He’s a carpenter you see, and has his own workshop and studio at the back of the property.”

You turn to Sherlock and he nods at you. You smile proudly before writing down ‘ _used present tense, not was a carpenter_ ’.

“Go on …” Sherlock says, turning from you to look at his new client.

“Well I was shocked, but Jonas claimed that he had no relatives, and would have liked to leave everything to my mother, but what with her dying years ago, he decided to leave everything to me.”  John pauses for moment, and you wondered if the man was holding back tears. He takes a deep breath, then begins speaking once again “He invited me to his house yesterday evening to finalise the paperwork, and I went. I left around midnight, but forgot my coat and umbrella, as it was very late and I was exhausted. Well, this morning I woke to hear that the man had been murdered, and I was a suspect!”

“The murder weapon,” Lestrade says, holding up a picture of a black umbrella “And your DNA was all over the house. You were the last person to see Jonas Oldacre alive.”

“I’ve told my story …” John says, looking to Sherlock with sad eyes. He suddenly looked exhausted. “That’s all I know. I’m sorry …”

“Satisfied?” Lestrade asks, turning to Sherlock with almost a comical told-you-so expression on his face.

“Not often …” The detective replies quietly, before sending you a quick look from your spot on the other side of the room.

You frown at Sherlock, wondering what he meant by that, but you are both interrupting by John MacFarlane, who begins to become somewhat hysterical …

“I understand how this looks Detective, but I assure you …

“So…” Lestrade interrupts, and Sherlock stands and moves back over to his laptop sitting on the table. “A man you barely know happens to come to you with a Will, leaving everything he possessed to you on the event of his death. The next day, when you visit him, he winds up dead.”

“I …”

Lestrade doesn’t the let the man speak, just continues his tirade, gradually becoming louder. “And the only person to be in contact with Jonas Oldacre for …”

“Yes thank you Lestrade.” Sherlock interrupts, and the man scowls at his friend and colleague “I think the rest of this can be said at the Station.”

“The station?” John repeats; his voice sounding much higher and wavering more than it had whilst he had been recounting his story.

Sherlock steps back, giving Lestrade a quick look, which the police detective seems to understand immediately, as he nods slightly before signalling to Sally. The woman steps forward, revealing a pair of hand cuffs that she had been hiding in her coat pocket.

“You’re under arrest under the suspicion of …” You watch as Lestrade reads John his rights and reason for his arrest, whilst Sherlock moves near you by the sofa, out of the way.

“What are you doing?” You whisper to Sherlock, trying to catch on to the man’s train of thought.

“This is a criminal investigation, with a key witness being the only suspect in a murder.” Sherlock replies quietly, before smiling down at you. “My favourite, but best to handle at a police station … with witnesses. I wouldn’t want anything the man says to be off the record …”

“You coming?” Lestrade asks Sherlock as you watch your latest client be escorted away by Sally.

“Of course.” The detective responds brightly “Can’t let you have all the fun.”

Lestrade scoffs, and rolls his eyes, but you know it is all in fondness. Ever since you had been working with Sherlock, you had noticed how well the two men seemed to get on, despite all the disagreements and drama.

“You gonna be alright sweetheart?” Lestrade asks you kindly, eyeing your injured arm that rests in the sling John had given you.

“Yeah sure.” You reply with a warm smile, before turning to Sherlock who was swiftly buttoning up his coat. “Have fun” You tell the man, and Lestrade rolls his eyes once again, although fondly.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but gives you a quick look of excitement before he turns and races down the stairs. You were half surprised that the man didn’t say something along the lines of ‘The game is on!’ like he usually would in this situation. You wondered whether it was because of the presence of Sally and Lestrade, but then again you didn’t think even that would stop him from being his usual eccentric self.  

You were just about to move to find something to do, when a small knock comes from downstairs. You frown for a moment, not having a clue who that could be. It was much too quiet and reserved for a worried client, and Sherlock or John would just bound up the stairs.

You listen for a few seconds, and with Mrs Hudson not making a move to answer the door, you slowly stand and make your way downstairs.

You pull the door open slowly, worried for a moment that you were about to meet one of Sherlocks so called ‘enemies’. Before you can change your mind, the door all but flies open, and an impatient woman stalks into the hallway and closes an umbrella.

“Anthea?”

The woman’s name sounds more like a question than a statement from your lips, and the waiting assistant to Mycroft rolls her eyes, before brushing past you and walking deeper into the building.

You follow Anthea up the staircase quickly, internally wondering if she knew that Sherlock had just left, and had been waiting for that exact moment. You didn’t really know if the two got on, but what you did know about them both led you to believe that they probably didn’t.

As Anthea enters the living room, she places down two bags you hadn’t even noticed, before raising her perfectly crafted eyebrow at your injured arm.

“Oh, just something that happened on a case. It’s not serious …” You trail off, shrugging slightly before remembering that jostling your arms and shoulders like that would not be a good idea in your condition.

“For this evening …” The woman says, turning to gesture at the two, extremely extravagant looking bags sitting on the table.

“Oh god, how could I forget!?” You exclaim, clapping your injured hand on your forehand “I completely forgot!”

Anthea smiles, “I take it you haven’t told Sherlock about your meeting with his brother …” The woman says, before crossing her arms. You wonder if she was more amused than annoyed by this little fact.

“No …” You all but whine, “I didn’t even think about … Do you think I should?” You ask Anthea, beginning to suddenly panic, and you didn’t really know why.

“Sherlock seems to be busy.” Anthea replies, and you don’t really know if that was an observation, or a reason to keep your little meeting with his brother to yourselves.

“Everything alright dear?” A kind voice says from the doorway, and you turn just in time to see the face of your landlady peeking into the living room.

“Yes Mrs Hudson.” You reply with a smile, before clearing your thought awkwardly. Suddenly you remember your manners, and turn to introduce the two women who were currently stood in the room with you. “This is Anthea; she works for Mycroft.”

Anthea pulls her phone from her jacket pocket, and begins to type something. You stand awkwardly in between the two wome; Mrs Hudson sending you a smile from the doorway and Anthea stood silently next to the living room table.

“Lovely to meet you dear.” Mrs Hudson says kindly, looking at the woman with a warm expression, but you could tell that she was also closely observing this new acquaintance.

“Likewise Mrs Hudson.” Anthea replies simply, still typing something furiously on her phone.

“Well, I’ll be downstairs if you need me dear.” Mrs Hudson says to you, and with one final glance to your companion, the woman disappears back down the staircase to her flat, humming to herself as she does.

“Thank you!” You call after her as she leaves, before turning back to the awaiting Anthea. “Was there anything else?” You ask awkwardly, trying desperately to contain yourself and not dive on the two bags she had just delivered.

“No.” Anthea replies, before finally pocketing her phone and making her way past you to the doorway. “The car will be here at 8pm sharp. Until tonight.” She says as a farewell, and it does not go unnoticed by you that the young woman gives you a genuine smile as she exits.

* * *

 

 

 

You stand in your bedroom wrapped in only a towel; glaring at the two bags resting on your messy double bed. You had taken a long shower, washed your hair, and even managed to put on a little makeup. But the two bags remained unopened and neglected. Anthea hadn’t mentioned to you exactly what these bags contained, and suddenly you had become terrified. What if they were really expensive? You think to yourself as you chew your lip nervously. Although, you reason, Mycroft probably had paid for them himself, so they obviously would be expensive compared to the kind of things you had worn before.

You glanced at the small clock on your bedside table, and nearly gasp in shock when you realise you only had twenty minutes before Anthea would be coming to pick you up. Taking a deep breath, you finally lean forward and gently begin to open one of the packages.

In the larger bag, lies a large grey coat, much like the one Sherlock liked to wear. However, this beautiful coat had a faux fur collar of a similar grey colour to the fabric, and three large buttons down the middle. It was stunning, and you are shocked by how heavy the coat is as you move to place it down on the bed. You think it would last a life time, and it would certainly keep you warm throughout the cold months in London. Finally, having smoothed down the coat and unwrapped it, you move on to the next bag. You don’t recognise the shop name, but have no doubt in your mind that you would never be visiting it for yourself if it was half as posh as the bag itself.

The dress you pull out makes your eyes bulge and your mouth drop open in shock. It was a deep blue, almost navy, but a much to richer colour to be called that. It had long sleeves which you were grateful for, but appeared to be rather figure hugging. You worried your lip for a second; wondering whether or not the dress would even fit you. You hoped it would, as you had never seen a more stunning piece of clothing, and you longed to wear it, even if it was just the once.

You had no idea whether these items were being leant to you, and whether or not Mycroft would want them back, and so you take extra care when placing on the garments. You wince as you pull the dress on over your head, worried that any minute you were going to hear an almighty rip, and Mycroft’s spies would descend from the ceiling and shoot you. You giggle as you wiggle on the dress, pulling the fabric slowly to make it sit straight on your figure.

You barely have any time to admire the beautiful dress, before you glance at the clock and see that you now have only five minutes left. You quickly put on a pair of black pumps Molly had so kindly leant you, before gently picking up the coat and heading downstairs. Tonight was the first night in years that you didn’t have any possessions with you, not even your phone. After all, you were going to be with Mycroft Holmes, and didn’t think that having Sherlock message you form under the table would be such a good idea. Reaching the living room, you gather a small piece of paper and leave a note for Sherlock, informing the detective that you would be back this evening, and would see him later. You didn’t think that the man would be back before you, but thought better safe than sorry as you headed downstairs to wait outside.

You had decided not to wear the sling John had kindly given you. As much as you had appreciated it, the gaudy white bandage was a little bit distracting, and you would hate for it to ruin the way the dress looked. You felt pretty, and noticed a slight bounce in your step as you waited on the pavement next to Speedy’s and quickly buttoned up your new long grey coat. You usually hated the word posh, but tonight you really felt it.  

The long black car appears around the corner a few seconds later, and you almost roll your eyes when you realise that the car had appeared at exactly 8pm sharp, not a moment before or after. You quickly clamber in the back of the vehicle, careful not to dirty your new clothes, and send a smile to Anthea who sat in the back seat. She smiles quickly in return, before pulling out her much loved phone and sending  a quick text message.

You ride the rest of the journey in silence, worrying over what exactly you were going to be doing tonight. It was Christmas Eve after all, and you wondered what the rich and powerful Mycroft Holmes could possibly want to do on such a momentous day.

The car suddenly begins to slow outside a huge stone building, with carvings along the windows and doors, and two huge flags of England and Great Britain on either side of the large entrance. Anthea nods to you as you look out of the car window, obviously answering your internal question. A man approaches the car and opens the door, and you move to climb out after Anthea, who you notice, does so with far more grace than you can manage.

You follow Anthea slowly through the entrance to the huge London building, distractedly looking around and the amazing décor and Christmas decorations that adorn the place.

Music flows from a room deeper in the back of the building, and Anthea pauses to speak to someone quietly as you listen. You can’t quite figure out whether this place was a hotel, a restaurant or some kind of government building. Knowing Mycroft, you think that it is probably a mixture of the three. Anthea finishes speaking, and turns to guide you into the large room you had been looking at. She walks you right to the back of the massive and elaborate room, and you quietly weave around tables and some people standing and having various hushed conversations. It appeared that most people were talking about Christmas, which didn’t shock you. What would surprise you however is if you found Mycroft to be doing the same.

You spot the eldest Holmes stood talking to a small group of three well-dressed gentlemen. Mycroft was speaking animatedly, laughing every now and then and his three companions were watching his completely enraptured. You thought it odd, as Sherlock and even Mycroft had always claimed that he didn’t have friends, but seeing the interaction before you, you would have to disagree.

“Good evening Mycroft.” You greet as he turns and spots you, Anthea stood behind you quietly.

“Good evening.” Mycroft responds in his rich English accent. “If you’ll excuse me gentlemen.”

The three men all incline their heads towards Mycroft, and send you a curious glance before they turn to walk away. Mycroft turns and leads you up a few steps at the back of the room, up to a raised platform surrounding by a bannister that gave you a wonderful view of the rest of the room. Whilst you sit down, you notice that Anthea has skilfully managed to disappear, and Mycroft sits opposite you at the small table as a waiter pushes your chair in behind you. It almost makes you blush, but you quickly focus again whilst you listen to Mycroft order some wine, water and food that you couldn’t repeat even if you tried.

“I almost didn’t recognise you.” The man says coolly, eyeing your new attire.

“Oh, yeah.” You reply rather dazed, looking down at your new dress. Your coat was gathered by the waiter after you had hung it on the back of your chair, Part of you wanted to sit on it like an egg and insure you didn’t loose it, but you let him take it, thinking that would probably be considered the proper thing to do. “Thank you by the way.” You continue, smiling shyly at the man opposite you.

“My pleasure. It’s the least I can do, what with you managing to live with my baby brother as long as you have.”

“I’m really grateful to Sherlock. And not just for the room, but for letting me help him with the cases to.”

“I have never known anyone to work with him as you have. Except possibly, for John Watson.”

“Well, John’s probably used to working in dangerous and stressful situations by now.” You reply, watching as a young man approaches the table and wordlessly begins pouring some water into two crystal goblets before you. “I’m sure working with Sherlock must be a piece of cake compared to war.”

“You would think …” Mycroft replies quietly, before trailing off and looking out over the huge room below you both.

“Thank you.” You say quietly to the waiter, before watching as the man nods slightly and walks away, holding the pitcher of water more gracefully than you had ever seen anyone do.

“Sherlock’s busy I take it?” Mycroft asks suddenly, and you nod.

“Yes, a new case appeared this morning. The murder of Jonas Oldacre.”

“Ah yes, a prominent business man from Norwood.”

You nod once again, not at all surprised that Mycroft knew exactly who you were talking about. It had been in the news, you think, although Mycroft usually knew about things like that happening before even the press did.

“Sherlock and Lestrade are at the station now questioning the suspect. They’ll probably be done soon though.” You ponder, before picking up the heavy crystal glace holding your iced water. “No doubt Greg has plans for Christmas.”

Mycroft suddenly claps his hands together, and it’s a movement that immediately reminds you of his younger brother. “So, I’m sure you are wondering what you are doing here.”

“Honestly Mr Holmes, between you and Sherlock, nothing can really surprise me anymore.” You reply with a laugh, just as a waiter approaches the table with a bottle of wine. You smile, watching as you are poured a glass of deep red wine. “I’ve learnt to just go with the flow …”

You and Mycroft talk for hours, mostly about Sherlock. The man listens amazed as you describe living and working with his brother. For the first time in your life, you eat a three course meal, and you can’t wipe the huge smile off your face the entire evening. Mycroft orders at least three bottles of wine, all so expensive that you cringe every time you pick up your glass, afraid that you’ll spill a week’s wages on the stunning oak table.

“I thought in all honestly that you were going to interrogate me or something …” You say after you manage to control your laughter.

Mycroft had been telling you about he and Sherlock’s childhood, and you had almost snorted wine out of your nose after he had done an impression of a young Sherlock.

“I’m not always as stoic as I am at work.” Mycroft replies with a raised eyebrow, before taking a long gulp of white wine.

“But you’re always working …” You muse, eyeing the man over your chocolate dessert.

“Exactly.”

* * *

“You’re back.” You say with some surprise after you are greeted with the sight of Sherlock sat by the fire after you arrive in the living room at 221B Baker Street.

You are slightly more than tipsy, and can’t help but smile and giggle a little, having no idea what you are even finding to be so amusing.

“Clearly …” Sherlock drawls slowly, eyeing you closely as he does.

You notice that the man was looking at your new outfit, and so you slowly peel off your large coat and smile when you reveal your new dress. You really do wonder whether or not you are drunk at this point, and so clear your throat awkwardly as you walk further into the warm and inviting living room.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you here so early. Don’t you have a … thingy … client … thingy.” You mumble, moving further into the room and hanging your new coat next to Sherlock’s on the hooks.

You smile as you see your old one resting at the back of the hooks, and wonder whether or not you could donate it to someone else. Although, by the state of it, you wonder if anyone would even want the coat, as it was barely even being held together.

“You’ve been drinking.”

You whirl around to look at the detective, realising suddenly that you had been staring at smiling at your coats for a while longer than you had thought. You giggle again, before clapping a hand over your mouth and nodding to your companion.

“Maybe.” You say simply as you slowly kick off Molly’s pumps and move them to the side of the room.

“Is that a yes?” Sherlock asks with a raised eyebrow “Or don’t you even remember consuming the alcohol?”

“Hey, blame your brother. He bought it.” You say dismissively with a wave of your hand; still trying to straighten your shoes as you reply to Sherlock who was still sat in his chair by the fire.

“What?”

You notice that the man seems honestly shocked, maybe even a bit startled to hear this. You hadn’t told him about your little meeting with Mycroft, but wouldn’t have been surprised if his brother had told him, or even if Anthea had mentioned it. As it was, Sherlock really had no idea about it, and frowns, completely bemused.

“Oh, yeah …” You drawl, smiling at the man’s expression. “I had dinner with Mycroft.” You shrug, before holding your cold hands towards the fire in an eerily similar manner to how you did when you were homeless.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks, still with a thoroughly confused expression.

“Yep.” You pop the ‘p’ and amuse yourself with the way the word falls from your slightly drunk mouth.

“With Mycroft?”

“Yep.” You repeat again, and you can’t hold back a laugh when you notice that Sherlock seems to be getting more confused, not less.

“Dinner …” The detective trails off, and you decide to keep quiet for a moment, just watching as the man’s expressions change as he thinks.

“You’re repeating yourself Sherlock. You always have a go at me for doing that.”

“I do not ‘have a go’ at you.” Sherlock replies, mimicking your accent as he quotes your words.

“Erh … yeah you do.” You reply with a nod and a smug expression.

“Sit.” You raise an eyebrow, and Sherlock sighs, before his expression suddenly softens, and he gestures to John’s old chair opposite him. “Please.”

“So, how was Scotland Yard?” You ask conversationally as you all but fall into the chair. Sherlock laughs once and shakes his head, and it is only then that you notice the man was holding a small glass of what looked like whiskey, and was relaxing in just his lounge pants and dressing gown.

“Just exactly how much alcohol did you manage to consume with my brother?” The man asks, and he sounds genuinely curious.

You shake your head, giggling slightly as you do. “You make it sound like a date Sherlock.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Your eyes widen, and you are amused for a few seconds before you realise that Sherlock was being serious, and so you furiously shake your head. “God no! He was basically spying on you … via me.”

“Ah of course.” Sherlock sighs, before leaning back into his chair “The customary interrogation meeting.”

“Customary? As in, this has happened before?” You ask, sitting forward in the chair slightly to be nearer the warm but small fire.

“With John yes. And even Mrs Hudson if I recall correctly. But that was years ago …”

Sherlock trails off, looking into the fire with an unreadable expression. You look at the man for a few moments, just enjoying the peace and quiet and slight buzz you were feeling from all the wine you had consumed with Mycroft. Suddenly, you laugh once again, and Sherlock quickly turns to you, probably wondering what on earth was so amusing this time.

“’If you recall correctly’…” You repeat, trying and failing to sound just like the detective. “You always recall correctly.”

Sherlock laughs again, but this time he doesn’t turn his gaze away from where you sit opposite him. He smiles, before quickly standing and moving over to the table. You hadn’t noticed before, but a small paper bag sits on the table. He picks it up gently, before moving back over towards you.

“Here.” Sherlock holds out the bag towards you, and you take extremely slowly, and the man smiles at your confused expression.

“What’s this?” You ask as he moves to sit back down, taking a swig of his whiskey as he does so.

“I believe that you would call it a Christmas present.”

“Really?” You ask incredulously, suddenly stopping in your exploration of the bag to gawk at him. Of all the things you were expecting, it certainly wasn’t this.

“Really what?” Sherlock asks, and before you can continue, he smiles once again, clearly teasing.

A teasing, whiskey drinking, cheerful, present giving Sherlock Holmes? You were suddenly extremely confused. You open the bag, and see a small pink and yellow box sitting at the bottom of the bag. You are bemused for a few seconds, before you finally reach into the bag and pull out the charming box. Suddenly, you realise what exactly it is you are looking at, as you have seen it before.

Whilst you were working on one of your first cases as Sherlock’s new assistant, you had followed your client’s footsteps to a gorgeous but overly expensive bakery, full of stunning cakes and sweets. You had been staring longingly at the goods whilst Sherlock had been talking to people about your case, and you were stunned to realise that the man had noticed that you were lusting after the amazing looking cakes. You slowly open the box, which much more care and grace than you thought you would manage considering the amount of alcohol you had consumed. Tears spring to your eyes as you see the beautiful cupcake, covered in pure white icing with one crisp looking strawberry on top. You knew it had only cost the man around £5, but to you back then that had seemed to be an extraordinary amount of money. But Sherlock had realised that you had wanted one, this exact cake, and he went back to get it for you. You were stunned, amazed, and so incredibly moved …

“Thank you Sherlock.” You say genuinely, before slowly closing the box back up to place it carefully in the bag. You would eat it tomorrow, if you could bring yourself to do such a thing and ruin the beautiful cake, But after all, it was Christmas day.

“It’s not much, but I have been informed that it is a non-optional social convention.” Sherlock mutters nonchalantly, seemingly not noticing just how much his small gift had moved you.

“It is optional I suppose … but really, thank you.”

You both sit, smiling at each for a few seconds, before Sherlock takes a deep breath, downs his drink, and stands in one smooth movement.

“Well, we have a busy day tomorrow, I’d better get some rest. And you to …”

“I will.” You reply, before suddenly frowning. “What’s tomorrow?”

“We’re travelling to Norwood.”

“Travelling? On Christmas day?” You ask, and Sherlock frowns, apparently realising that was pretty much an impossibility.

“Hmm …” The man muses, before placing his empty glass on the table where your gift had been. “Perhaps not then. But we will be working.”

“Fine by me.” You reply, and smile as the man turns to head to bed. “Good night Sherlock.”

You always said goodnight to Sherlock, no matter when you headed to bed. Tonight however, you were pretty amazed to hear a soft ‘goodnight’ murmured as Sherlock leaves the room, heading to bed.  

You gather your cake in its pristine box, and head up to your own bedroom, a beaming smile on your face the entire way.

* * *

### You are back working on the John McFarlane case by Boxing Day.

 

 

Christmas had been a relatively quiet occasion for you and Sherlock. John and Mary had a small gathering at their London home, to which you and Sherlock had of course been invited. After the detective had declined, rather as if he believed the whole idea was completely ridiculous, you had followed, although politely.

When John had called to wish you both a Merry Christmas, he had all but reprimanded Sherlock for his lack of festivity, or as the man had put it ‘Christmas-ness’. Sherlock had actually pouted at that, making you laugh, and proclaimed that ‘Christmas-ness’ was most definitely not a real word.

Mrs Hudson had come up to the flat in the afternoon, about to go to a Christmas party with some friends, and even inviting you both to join her, although she would have probably known better. Sherlock had managed to decline politely, probably remembering your discussion at lunchtime, and how you had chastised him for being so callous to John. Mrs Hudson had smiled, wished you both a Happy Christmas, and warned you not to make a mess. You had no idea what she had meant by that, until Sherlock had quickly moved to collect a brand new Cluedo, a present from Mycroft apparently, and you had actually gulped. You would be having words with the elder Holmes next time you saw him.

Molly had texted you in the middle of your game, and wished you luck, as well as asking if you would like to join her for a drink afterwards. You asked for a rain check on that, after all you had no idea how long a detective game with Sherlock Holmes was going to take, and you were really having a good time.

The next day, after you had finally recovered from the chaos that was Cluedo with Sherlock, you were both heading off to Norwood village, to see the home and burnt out remains of Jonas Oldacres property.  

“So, what did John say at the station?”         You ask the detective sat opposite you, as the train sped towards Norwood Station.

Sherlock frowns, and tilts his head in a confused gesture. “’Do you want a coffee’?”

You roll your eyes, amused that the brainy detective had not understood you. That was new.

“I meant John McFarlane, not John Watson …”

“Oh.” Sherlock replies somewhat awkwardly, before clearing his throat. “John’s mother was engaged to Jonas when they were teenagers. Apparently it didn’t end well.”

You nod, understanding. “So that’s the connection between the two men then; his mother was engaged to him.” You frown then, and Sherlock pulls out his phone, apparently looking for something to show you. “That’s not really a lot to go on.”

Sherlock reaches over the table in between you on the train, and holds up a photograph of a damaged picture frame. You notice that it was in a police evidence bag, so assume that this is something important to do with the case.

“John McFarlane only discovered this after his mother’s death a few years ago,” Sherlock explains as you zoom in on the photo.

“Bloody Hell …” You mutter, finally getting a closer look.

“Jonas Oldacre received the picture as a gift from John’s mother. It was sent out to a lot of people as a wedding favour when the McFarlane’s got married” Sherlock explains, ignoring your little outburst. “He shot a hole in it, and then sent it back to her. John asked his father about it, and he told him the whole story.”

“So Jonas would have had every reason to hate John then, if he hated his mother and the man she married.”

Sherlock nods, and takes the phone back from you. “Jonas Oldacre made many violent threats towards the McFarlanes over the years.”

“Because she didn’t marry him?”

Sherlock nods “Apparently.”

“And Jonas was, jealous? Obsessed?”

“Something like that. He hated the McFarlane family, and wanted to ensure that they knew that. It’s why John’s parents insured that he hadn’t had any contact with Jonas. Now that both of his parents are dead, there was nothing to stop Jonas from contacting John.”

“But why?” You ask “Why would a man who hated the family leave everything to John in his will?”

“Good question.”

* * *

Norwood village was stunningly beautiful. It was small, and that alone was enough to make you fall in love with it, but with the slight dusting of snow, it appeared more like a winter wonderland. Sherlock managed to get a taxi outside the small train station, and you both arrived at Jonas Oldacres home moments later, only to be greeted with what must have been at least five police cars, and one huge fire engine.

As you exit the taxi and turn to walk up the path to the house, you notice a familiar face stood before you.

“Lestrade?” You ask, bemused as to the man’s sudden appearance.

“Hello” The man says jovially “Had a good Christmas then you two?”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock questions with a sigh, finally meeting you both outside the house.

“It’s my case now; I was the one to get McFarlane after all.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but doesn’t actually say anything in response to that.  As the two men begin to have a little conversation, you notice something on the verge leading up to the semi-detached home. A small pile of stones were arranged in a neat little pile, with a penny coin meticulously placed on top. You knew that sign well enough, but hadn’t seen it in years …

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, and you falter for a moment.

“Probably nothing …” You murmur, just as a young police officer runs down to greet Lestrade.

You walk around the back of the huge house to the place where Jonas’ workshop had once been. All that was left now was blackened wood and ash, and some men were busily chopping down some of the timbers to make it safe. You wince as you look at the damage, it was  certainly extensive.  

“Any witnesses?” Sherlock asks, but you can’t tear your eyes away from the ash covered rubble before you.

“One Sir, a … Mrs Lexington.” The Officer reads, and Lestrade nods.

“And the … organic remains?” Sherlock continues, looking over to where the office once sat.

“Bagged up and taken to the morgue for inspection.” The officer continues, nodding over to where the remains had been discovered. “Don’t know how much use they’ll be though, it was just bones at ash.”

“That must’ve been a very hot fire.” Sherlock murmurs, before looking over towards you. “Alright?”

“Yeah, fine.” You look over to your friend and send him a tight smile, and he seems mollified.

“This way please Mr Holmes …” The officer continues as Lestrade begins talking to someone as he enters the main house.

“Ah, about bloody time!” A female voice suddenly yells.

An older woman wearing a huge green coat of a pair of pyjamas suddenly appears from around the side of the building. Sherlock’s eyes squint as he looks at her, and the woman all but marches over towards him.

“Excuse me?” The man questions, and you hide your smile.

“I’ve been talking to the police for three weeks now about all those bloody homeless rats skirting around the house. Are you finally here to get rid of them?”

“We’re here inquiring about the death of Jonas Oldacre.” You interrupt, feeling rather defensive against this loud mouthed lady. “I believe you knew him?” You manage to ask sweetly, and the woman falters for a moment.

“He was my neighbour for twenty years. Tragic what happened, to be killed in your own home …”

“You gave a statement I presume?” Sherlock interrupts, and the woman nods.

“Yes, to that chap there.” The woman nods over to a young man walking around the edge of the rubble, seemingly oblivious. “Saw John McFarlane walk into the house around 7pm, stayed well after midnight, then he left.”

“And these homeless people, are they causing you any problems?” Sherlock continues, and you grit your teeth to stop yourself from saying something rather unprofessional.

“Yes! By bloody hanging around all the time. They’ll get nothing round here though, neither from me or Oldacre. He hated them!”

“Thank you for your time Mrs Lexington.” Sherlock replies, before he leads you both around the front of the house.

You didn’t even bother to ask how the man had figured out who the woman was, and you were too tempted to turn around and have a little chat with the woman to speak. Sherlock must have sensed your unease, as he completely ignored her comments as he walks away.

“Sherlock …” You pull on the detectives arm for a moment, leading him over to where you had seen the small pile of stones. You point down at it, and when Sherlock just shrugs you smile. The detective didn’t know what it was, but you did. “That is a traveller’s sign; I haven’t seen it in ages. It means that the homes are hospitable, and it’s like a message to others that you may be able to get charity from there.”

“Mrs Lexington seemed to maintain that she never aided any homeless.”

“Well she’s lying.” You say coldly, and Sherlock smiles.

“There’s one way to find out.”

It takes only a few hours to discover where all the homeless people were living. Just outside the village was a huge bridge that was no longer used due to a motorway being built nearby, and the community had made it there meeting point. Apparently, as a kind elderly man in the village had informed you, many people stopped off at the village on their way into London, and some even got work at local farms. The man believed that Jonas Oldacre himself had once hired a ‘gentleman of the road’ as he had put it, which was interesting, very interesting.  

As you approach the meeting point, you immediately notice that there was only one homeless person to show up. You wondered whether it was because it was still relatively early, and hoped you would be able to get more people to question as the evening went on.

You and Sherlock sit at a distance from each other around the huge open pit fire so as not to cause suspicion. The man had found some alarmingly dirty clothes, and you had just worn some of your own that you had carried with you on habit. You looked like two homeless people warming themselves by a fire, which is exactly what the detective had wanted.

You shift on the muddy ground, and move to casually warm your freezing cold hands. As you do, an older man sat near you looks over, and gives you a toothless smile. You smile back, and can sense Sherlock shift from his position near you.

“So, where are you from sweetheart?” The man asks kindly, stirring a cold can of beans as he addresses you.

“Manchester.” You answer truthfully, not really knowing when you decided to use your actual story as a cover.

“Ah, a northerner. I guessed as much …”

“It’s not exactly northern.” You scoff, and the man sends you another toothless grin.

“It’s north ain’t it.” The older man replies with a shrug. “So, what brings you all the way down ‘ere?”

“Just …” You trail off, trying not to obviously look over to Sherlock, whose greasy black hair was poking out from over a ripped sleeping bag.

The man looks at you closely for a few seconds, before suddenly exhaling and nodding to himself. “Oh I see.”

“See what?” You ask, startled.

“You’re running.”

You laugh once without humour. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

“Boyfriend?” You shake your head, and the man doesn’t miss a beat before he asks “Girlfriend?”

“Family.” You answer, suddenly worried that you were giving too much away.

Sherlock had always told you to weave the truth into lies, to make them more believable, but you had a sudden feeling that this encounter was going to take your genuine honesty. After all, you weren’t really in disguise this time. This is who you were, a homeless travelling young woman.

“Well, count yourself lucky lass. Not everyone on God’s green earth can say they have family.” The man continues, before placing down his now empty bean can and beginning to lick his family.

“I used to …” You say quietly.

“What happened?” The man probes; leaning back as if settling himself in for a story.

You wrap your arms firmly around your torso, almost as if you were subconsciously trying to defend yourself.

“C’mon, share your story. I’m sure we’re all interested to hear it!”

“Please …” A small voice says from across the fire, and it takes you a few seconds before you realise that the small gruff Scottish voice belonged to Sherlock.

Taking a deep breath, you decide ‘what the hell’ and begin to delve into your story, hopefully gaining the man’s trust as you speak.

“I was ten when my mum died. She had been sick for years, so it wasn’t really a shock or anything. We lived together in Manchester, and didn’t really have any money.” You say with a shrug, remembering how that really hadn’t mattered to either of you. “She left me a little bit though, and social services moved me to my father’s house to a town an hour out of London.”

You glance over at the old man, and he nods, almost as if telling you to continue. “I found out I had two older brothers, who had chosen to live with my father when they had divorced. She was pregnant with me when she left, so I never even knew they existed until I went to live with them.” You grit your teeth, preparing yourself. “It was alright for a while. I was shy, but they didn’t seem to care. I lived with them, kinda happily for two years, but then when I was twelve my older brothers got … handsy.”

The older man’s mouth opens in shock, and you try and ignore the figure now sitting as still as a stone opposite you both.

“You mean … tried to touch you or summat?” The homeless man asks, seemingly appalled.

“No, no nothing like that.” You pacify. “They were aggressive. Screamed at me, bullied me, hit me … They were abusive basically. I told my father about it, and he didn’t care.” You rub your cold hands together once more, before continuing. “He didn’t even really listen when I told him, just sent me to my room and told me to keep my mouth shut. Then I realised … My father wasn’t quiet or lazy, he was a drugged up layabout. And my brothers … well they were just abusive assholes, who thought that smacking me around was better entertainment than anything else.”

“So you left then?”

You nod, and clear your throat to clear away some of the rasp that had built up in your voice.

“I was thirteen, and got some money from social services, because my mum had left me some for my birthday in her will. I bought a train ticket to London … never looked back.”

“That was brave.” A deep voice says from across the fire, and you send a watery smile to your friend, just as the homeless man nods.

“Aye, it was. To go from that to be homeless …”

“I met a man called Bill, an older gentlemen who yelled at me for sleeping in the wrong spot, and dragged me to the Arches under a railway bridge, where he introduced me to the kindest people I had ever met.” You smile to yourself once again, feeling a slight pang at the mention of your old friend. “I lived with them for seven years, and they became my family.”

“So, why’d leave?” The man continues, obviously mentioning the fact that you were suddenly in Norwood.

“A friend needs my help.” You reply simply, and the man nods once again.

“Huh … Brave, brave girl …”

You smile shyly, before asking the man where he had come from, and what he was doing. He was a fantastic story teller, and you didn’t find it difficult at all to listen to him. He mentions a friend repeatedly though, and after a while, you realise you need to ask.

“This friend of yours …”

“Sailor” The man corrects with a nod, and you smile at the unusual name.

“Sailor, was he actually a sailor.”

“Oh yeah, had a medal and everything. He let me borrow it once …”

“Where is he now?” You ask, wondering if you would get to talk to this so called ‘sailor’

“He went down to the Oldacre workshop. Got a little job there last week helping …”

“Wait, Jonas Oldacre?” You ask suddenly, before a slight unexplainable chill creeps over your body.

“Yeah …” The man says with a frown.

You look over to Sherlock, and without a single word said, you knew he was thinking the same thing. You both shoot up, and beginning running back towards the village.

“Thanks!” You call over your shoulder at the man, and hear a faint laugh as you move away.

* * *

“Ah Sherlock, forensics just found this …” Sherlock doesn’t let Lestrade finish before he reaches over and grabs the evidence bag.

“An old military badge …” You mutters as you look at the ash covered contents.

In that moment, you realise what had happened, and you feel slightly sick.

“Lestrade, there is a homeless man in the village by the name of …”

“Winston.” You reply quietly, trying not to actively throw up.

“Yes Winston. Find him, and bring him here.”

“What why?”

“Because he can ID the body for you.”

“It wasn’t Jonas.” You explain to a bemused Lestrade

“DNA will prove it in a few days, but for now we need Winston’s statement.” Sherlock continues, moving quickly around the rubble to the front of the huge house.

“Fine.” Lestrade says, signalling over an officer as you move to catch up with the long legged detective.

“So where’s Jonas?”

“Next door.” The detective says simply, and you turn to Lestrade as the man jogs to catch up with you.

* * *

“Evening Mrs Lexington, do you mind?”

“You need a warrant!” The woman screams, but Sherlock and Lestrade brush past her, and you follow the two men into the house.

Sherlock stands in the empty attic room, before clapping his hands together and turning to you.

“I’m going to need a newspaper and some water …” He asks, and you don’t question it, just move downstairs to bring the detective what he wanted.

Some police give you odd looks as you slightly dampen the newspaper in the sink, just as a sobbing Mrs Lexington sits cuffed at her kitchen table.

“We’re not invisible you know.” You mutter as you stand over the kitchen sink “We have friends and family, just like you do.” The woman sniffles, but you don’t stop “Sailor had a friend who knew he was missing, and so now we know what happened to him. What you and Jonas did to him.”

“M’am …” A officer warns, no doubt worried that you were going to be liable for something if you kept talking.

“He trusted you, and you killed him and used him like a prop in a play. That’s why you wanted the homeless people out, because you knew eventually one of them would figure it out what you did …” You turn off the tap, and clear your throat. “Jonas is alive, and you both killed an innocent man to frame an innocent man. You’re going to hell …”

You send her a deathly glare as you walk past her back upstairs, and silently rejoice as you hear the woman sob even louder.

You hand the newspaper to Sherlock when you reach the attic, and he lights it with a lighter from a police officer. He begins to slowly wave it around, creating a deep black smoke.

He turns to you, and nods once. “Now, on the count of three … One, two, three …”

“FIRE!” You scream with all your might, just as a bang sounds from above your heads.

Sherlock looks up with a triumphant smile on his face, before nodding his head towards the ceiling.

“Well go on then Lestrade, you may want to catch him.”

“Him?” The detective inspector asks, as an officer takes the burning newspaper from Sherlock.

Not a second later, a square piece of the ceiling slides away, and the begrudged and coughing face of a man suddenly appears above you all. You resist the urge to jump at him.

“Jonas Oldacre.” Sherlock says, more as an explanation than a question.

You and Sherlock both look over towards Lestrade with equally matched smug expressions, though all the man can manage in response was … “Jesus Christ”


End file.
